


Fractions

by PinkPenguinParade



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Crisis of Faith, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, I broke him, I'm Sorry, Loss, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, There is no Happy Ending Here, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22188538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkPenguinParade/pseuds/PinkPenguinParade
Summary: Just a little longer. My demon will come back, he thought. He promised.He was still there, alone, when dawn came to paint the sky (blue and cream and the amber of a serpent's eyes).Crowley wasn't coming.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 65
Kudos: 103





	1. Spent All My Years in Believing You

**Author's Note:**

> Content note for grief, depression, suicidal ideation and discussion of suicide. If you're in a bad place, reach out; you're not alone.  
> US National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255, also has a chat service.  
> UK Samaritans: 116 123 (UK & ROI)  
> Crisis Services Canada: 833-456-4566 
> 
> Seriously, there is no happy ending here. Do what you need to for your sanity.
> 
> Additional notes when posting is complete.
> 
> I'm so, so sorry.

The sun was bright, for London.

He waited on their bench, in black and grey and ember-crimson, sunglasses dimming the world. (The glasses shouldn't have stopped him from seeing the cream and white of his demon, if he was there. They shouldn't have caused the empty bench.)

He smiled, out of habit, at a child walking past-like he always does, even when he doesn't feel like smiling. Usually he got smiles back, shy or excited or exuberant; today mothers hurried their children on, concerned and on-guard.

The other half of his bench was still empty.

He waited until nightfall, with a growing sense of unease tipping over into panic.

Just a little more time, he thought. Just a little longer, and Crowley would be there. Gabriel had probably started pontificating; he could talk for hours. There was nothing to be worried about. 

Streetlights flicked to life, illuminating people who were headed home--back to their lives, their loved ones.

Still no sign of white hair, a cream-colored coat, a comfortable soft corporation that he was used to existing in.

Still no sign of the demon he had put off talking to, and put off talking to, never saying the important things because it was too dangerous (because he was too scared, because he didn't want to have to choose, because he still believed in Heaven, because because because). 

Just a little longer. My demon will come back, he thought. He promised.

He was still there, alone, when dawn came to paint the sky (blue and cream and the amber of a serpent's eyes).

Crowley wasn't coming.

He stood numbly, trying to see past the yawning pit in his chest. Trying to think of someplace to _go._

He thought of Crowley's flat but couldn't bear it. Not just yet. And so he found his steps headed toward the bookshop. Either he would find something useful there--some solace, time to recoup, some way of getting information--or else he could view the char for himself, but either way it would be something _real._

The bookshop door was open. 

He stopped and stared for a moment _wrong wrong this is wrong_ and then made himself go in. Maybe he'd misunderstood the plan, maybe Crowley had come here, had been waiting here for him like he had waited--

Michael was standing by the counter, wearing the least angelic smile he'd ever seen. "Come looking for your boyfriend?" she smirked.

He reeled back as though struck. "Please," he said, knowing he was out of character, knowing he was courting a smiting, "Please, where is he? What happened? What did you do?"

"What happened, _ducky,_ is that Heaven did its job even when Hell failed." She leaned forward, showing far too many teeth. "This place will be a nice base of operations, now that the traitor no longer needs it."

"You can't! He can't be--"

"Oh, he is. And you know what you are?"

_Alone,_ his mind supplied, while he searched for an answer.

"Hell's problem. Not mine," she said, and smote him.

***

He returned to himself in an alley three blocks away, gently smoking and with a long burn down his side. That had been a killing blow, he realized; intended to discorporate Crowley and send him back to Hell. It probably only hadn't worked because it was aimed... well, in the wrong direction...

...which meant Heaven likely thought him taken care of. He could almost be free, if he acted quickly. If being free meant anything anymore.

He couldn't stop himself from at least heading to the flat, just in case, but he didn't go in. He didn't need to. The Bentley, so shiny and whole yesterday morning, was sliding dusty and dull into its actual age, no longer buoyed by demonic love.

He knew he should go upstairs. There were almost certainly things there that would be useful to him. But he had just been there, had spent last night there with Crowley in giddy relief and exhaustion and, with the dawn, apprehension and plotting. Even thinking of that space now, empty where there had been so much life, opened a yawning pit in his heart.

He just couldn't bear it. He turned and walked away instead.

***

Crowley had told him once, in his cups, that demons didn't cry. He'd thought it hyperbole at the time, or bravado. Now, he knew, it was only imprecise. 

Demons _couldn't_ cry. And now apparently neither could he. 

He had made it to the tube, and to a rail station. Somehow, he had made it onto a train, although he didn't remember now exactly how or where he was headed. He hunkered down in his seat, curled up by the window, and waited, and didn't cry.


	2. Angels Unawares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Guten abend,"_ someone said near him. 
> 
> He looked up. "I'm sorry?"
> 
> "Ah, you are English. Good evening. Are you well? You have sat here for hours."
> 
> "Oh. I'm sorry. It's just so... peaceful in here. I'll go--"
> 
> "You need not go. We are open to all, here. Do you... do you need help?"
> 
> "I'm quite all right, I--" He choked on the enormity of the lie. "I... think I might, yes."

He was in Germany somewhere, he was almost sure. The architecture was right, and mostly people around him were speaking German. (He wished he remembered more German; he could learn it if he needed, but he wasn't sure how much miracle would alert Heaven, or how much he had already used getting here.)

He considered asking for directions--or even just the name of the town--but he wasn't sure where he was going, or if it mattered. He walked, wandering the streets, prepared with a smile and a kind word for anyone who approached him. 

No-one did. It took him a while to realize--the shadows were deepening; the slices of sky between buildings shading toward dusk, and no-one was looking at him. He didn't think anyone had asked him for a ticket, for that matter.

He walked aimlessly, glancing and looking away whenever he caught his reflection in a storefront. (The wrong reflection, so wrong and so right and if he didn't look directly at it, he could almost imagine...)

Something was pulling him, trying to get his attention--had been tugging him for a while, he realized, bending his steps there. He turned a corner, and saw a small church. Old, weathered stone and leaded stained glass almost shone to him, standing out among much more modern brick or steel-and-glass buildings. He took a step toward it--

And froze. Was this a trap? Had he been followed, had the switch been found out? He wasn't sure of much, but he could imagine Crowley's tart response if he got himself killed after all of this.

He took a breath, closed his eyes. Focused, feeling out in all directions for a hint of angelic or infernal interference.

Nothing. Nothing but the church, glowing gently, feeling like as much like home as, he suspected, anything ever would again. 

He opened his eyes and stepped over, almost stumbling--the world was brighter, and people passing by were noticing him again, and he realized how closed-down he'd been since...

He resolutely failed to finish that thought, and headed into the church.

***

_"Guten abend,"_ someone said near him. 

He looked up. "I'm sorry?"

"Ah, you are English. Good evening." The woman talking to him was slight and mousy-haired, joyful in a way that both soothed and hurt him. "Are you well? You have sat here for hours."

"Oh. I'm sorry. It's just so... peaceful in here. I'll go--"

"You need not go. We are open to all, here. Do you... do you need help?"

"I'm quite all right, I--" He choked on the enormity of the lie. "I... think I might, yes."

"When did you eat?" she asked gently.

"I don't--" He thought back. He'd had cocoa, while poring over Agnes' prophecies. They'd had wine on the way back from Tadfield, a few licks of an ice lolly on Sunday morning, but food? "...remember," he faltered.

"My husband always makes too much food."

"He loves you," he said simply, knowing it was true--she walked wrapped in love, wore it like a blanket, and it burrowed into him knifepoint-sharp.

"...You would be welcome. Although I warn you, my daughter is bringing her girlfriend tonight. You may not be able to speak much."

"My dear, I could not impose--"

"You came to my church, in pain," she said. "You have not eaten. You appear to be a... _vogelscheuche?_ In the fields, to scare off birds?"

"Scarecrow?"

"Scarecrow. Something happened to you, I think? Whatever it was.... You are not a burden, Herr Englishman. Let me feed you."

He sighed, eyes heavy behind his sunglasses. He didn't want to go--didn't want to be surrounded by this lovely family and their human emotions--and at the same time he craved it, to touch some of that warmth for a little while. "Thank you, my dear. Ah... scarecrow?"

"A bit, yes," she said with a smile.

"Is there somewhere I could wash up?"

She pointed down the hall. "Water closet is on the left. I will text my husband that I am bringing home a guest." She held out her hand. "I am Petra."

He took it, gently. "Az--" He cleared his throat. "Anthony. It's lovely to meet you."

The washroom was clean and well-lit, and he looked in the mirror, properly _looked_ for the first time. She wasn't wrong, he did need a clean--the red hair had no pretensions of 'artfully cool', he had dirt on his face and a scorch on his suit where Michael smote him. He dropped his glasses on the sink and washed his face, scrubbed his hands through ember-dark hair until pain in his side pulled him up short.

He eased up his waistcoat and shirt. An angry red welt ran down his ribs under where the scorch was.

"That looks like it hurt," said the Crowley in the mirror.

"Quite a bit," he said glancing up, and froze. Yellow eyes looked back at him, slit-pupiled, his own and not his own. "Oh. I didn't know I could actually go delusional."

"You never know until you try. Mind you, it would explain a few things about Gabriel."

He closed his eyes, covered his face with his hands. "You're not real," he said, with something between a laugh and a sob. "You're not. You're not real."

When he looked back up, his reflection was just a reflection, his own expressions on Crowley's face. 

He missed him already. 

***

Petra's nearby flat was a beacon of love, light, warmth in the deepening evening chill. Her husband introduced himself as Bastian, also in excellent English; their daughter Lara shook his hand firmly and smiled. Lara's girlfriend introduced herself as "Katie, I'm American but they don't hold it against me."

"Anthony. Pleased to meet you all," he said. He declined Bastian's offer to take his coat, thinking of the mess on his side, similarly declined the offer to take off his glasses with "Thank you, but my eyes are quite sensitive," which was almost even true.

Dinner was nearly ready. Bastian beckoned Petra into the kitchen with him, where she sampled a pot and they spoke in rapid-fire German.

He cocked his head, half-listening to almost-familiar syllables as the girls gave him a short tour. "Bastian thinks she should be more careful about bringing home strays," Katie said. "He wants her to get a last name, at least. She says it's ministry, and she can't just not help people who need help."

"My dear, I wasn't meaning to eavesdrop--"

"It's okay," said Lara. "This happens every few weeks. Mama has a habit of bringing home strays."

"It runs in the family," Katie said fondly, looking at her girlfriend with enough love to quite take his breath away. 

Oh. OH. That was... Not metaphorical. That look, that hint of humor with a bit of mischief and so much love love LOVE and something must be wrong with this body because his chest seized up and he couldn't breathe, it was so familiar, even on someone else's face, and he couldn't _breathe--_

He dimly heard Katie call "Petra!" Lara's voice by him telling him to breathe. Warm human hands on his own, on his arms, guiding him to sit down. 

"Anthony," Petra said, kindly, firmly. "Breathe with me. In... and out... in... and out..."

He tried to focus on her voice, make this stupid corporation do what it was told. "I'm sorry," he gasped, and breathed in, and out. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I should go."

"Sit," Petra said, in a voice that brooked no argument. "Breathe. Tell me... Tell me what you like to do."

He made himself take a breath, because it would be a shame to disappoint her. "I like... I like to read." Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. "Haven't had much time lately." He could feel his human heart calming, the pressure in his chest easing, and he made himself continue to breathe. 

"Tell me what kind of books you like." 

"Wilde," he said, and the thought of his first editions, some of them signed by poor Oscar, now lost, almost sent him spiraling into panic again. He forced himself to breathe. "Nearly anything. Mostly classics." A few more breaths, and he felt able to open his eyes and start to uncurl his body from the tight ball he'd pulled into. 

Their concerned faces stared back at him. "Are you... all right?" Lara said

"That was... I've never done that before. I do apologise." He shivered. "I did not enjoy it."

"Nobody ever does," Petra said. She held onto his hand, firm and warm and human, until he calmed enough to pull away.

They got him some water, lovely people; let him sit quietly for a few minutes in the symphony of domestic bustle. For his part he tried to breathe and be calm, not to be any more a burden to this little family than he could help, and when he asked about the lavatory he felt almost normal again. For whatever normal meant now.

He slipped the sunglasses off and scrubbed damply at his face with both hands. Stared into slitted amber eyes. "I shouldn't be here," he muttered. "I shouldn't. These people are kind, and I shouldn't be endangering them."

"That was quite the show you put on," said the Crowley in the mirror. 

"Oh. Lovely. My psychosis is back," he said, and dropped his head into his hands, stifling a wail.

"Come on, you'd miss me if I went away, angel."

"I do, yes. Very much." He raised his head and looked back into the mirror, meeting the eyes he had loved for so long, knowing that there was nobody but himself behind them now and still unable not to answer back. "This isn't what was supposed to happen."

There was no answer.

***

Dinner was stew, hearty and simple and homemade. It was delicious. He didn't technically need to eat--despite all the time they'd spent together, wasn't sure how Crowley had felt about food generally, just that he was happy to partake some when they were together--but he expected food to be energizing and invigorating, and so it was. He was more cautious with the excellent beer on offer; both wanting very much to imbibe and afraid to let go of that much control. But mostly he was glad just to be there, letting the family conversation wash over and around him and ask nothing of him. To be part of something, however briefly.

"So, Anthony," Bastian said, passing him some warmed brown bread. "Are you Lutheran, then?"

He startled a bit out of the gentle haze he had let himself slip into, and covered with a bite of bread. "Not really," he said carefully. "I admired Martin greatly; it took a great deal of courage to do what he did. But I... I belong to an older sect," he finished. 

"Then what brought you to the church today?"

He took another bite of bread before answering, chewing carefully, ignoring the glare Petra was sending at her husband. "It felt... loved. Peaceful." He sighed. "You are carefully not asking what you want to know, which is am I in trouble, and am I going to bring trouble to your lovely family? And the answer is, I don't know. I do hope not; if I believed there was serious risk I would never have agreed to come here."

Four pairs of eyes watched him. He started to put the bread to his mouth again and stopped, appetite vanished, trying to think how best to explain things to satisfy his host.

"My... my partner." His voice broke and he took a breath, trying not to gulp. Eyes aching with tears he couldn't shed. "He died. Rather suddenly." He dropped his gaze to his hands, pulling at the bread; he couldn't handle the sudden kindness and sympathy in those gazes. "His... family... did not approve of our relationship. My family very much did not approve. They would like to stop me being an embarrassment now." He shrugged, just a tiny half-hitch of one shoulder. "I don't much care for any of the methods they might employ, I'm afraid. So I ran."

He was staring a hole in his bread, now, fiddling with the crumb of it, collapsing the gluten in his fingers. He didn't want to look up and see pity and comfort and kindness. He didn't want to look up at all.

Katie was the first to speak. "Don't let them change you," she commanded fiercely. "Don't. Run if you have to." There was a rattle of cutlery, and he looked up to see her take Lara's hand with tears shining in her eyes. "I ran here. And I'm so glad I did."

"I'm glad too" Lara said, echoed by her parents a moment later. 

The conversation recovered after that--a bit haltingly, but he did reach the point where his food tasted no more of ashes before a sweet almondy cake was brought out for dessert.

He helped clear the table and gave his thanks, tidying away the signs of his intrusion into their lives, and made to go.

Petra caught him by the door. "Do you have a place to stay tonight?"

"I don't--I haven't thought that far ahead, actually," he said, to avoid telling her he didn't sleep.

She pressed a paper into his hand. "If you need a place, go here. They will help you. Or find me again. Until then," she bowed her head briefly, "May the Lord bless and keep you, Anthony."

He froze, his traitorous heart hitching in his chest, and absolutely did not know what to say to that. His unfallen state indicated She cared, maybe in some measure even approved. But he had never in all his thousands of years felt less blessed and kept. He finally managed a breath again, and stuttered out, "Blessings upon you and yours as well." And as he said the words, he felt it in truth--without really meaning to, some of his Grace flowed out from him toward these lovely people who, when he was a stranger, had taken him in. 

Taking a desperate leave, he fled, hoping he hadn't just directed Heaven's attention upon innocent and devout people.

***

He walked. 

He walked quickly away from Petra's apartment, then settled into a slower pace, wandering the city, Crowley's long legs eating up the distance even without a destination. He spoke kindly to those he passed who were hurting and homeless, late and lost; most of them spoke kindly back to him in broken English or his extremely broken (and deeply outdated) German. 

He didn't want to raise any alarms, was intensely conscious of Heaven's tracking of miracle, but small blessings had always been in the general way of, of petty cash, for lack of a better term. And despite his current situation he was still himself. These people, disregarded and ignored by their society, were kind back to him, and he found he didn't have it within him to leave them without some small blessings when he had the means to make their lives better, easier. He had nothing to give them directly--did not dare start miracling things out of firmament for them--but he could ensure that other people passing would find themselves more generous, that shelter beds might come available, that spaces might be found where there was warmth and food and peace.

He walked, and the city around him was, for a while, a kinder place.

And then he found himself at the edge of a camp, full of tired people who had fled the only homes they'd known, in hopes of finding somewhere they could live. People who had landed here, unable to speak the language, asking only for the chance to live and contribute and raise families and have jobs.

Their hope sang to him, would have soothed him but that their hopelessness pulled at him, threw cords into the depths of him and tugged. Even in the small hours of the morning people were up and about--arguing and cooking and talking and making love and living, living, _living_ , balanced on a knife-edge of uncertainty and continuing on regardless, because they didn't know any other way to be. 

He felt for them. He _felt_ them, all of them. They echoed his heart in a thousand small ways, feeding him, feeding on him, their need straining at the floodgates of him, so much need--

His knees hit the cobbles, and he _cracked,_ his slight unaccustomed frame shaking as the walls he'd been desperately holding together shattered and Grace poured out. 

Someone was asking him if he was alright. He wasn't sure what language his ears were hearing, but he understood, and pulled back into his body (this body that didn't fit, that his best friend had, he supposed, bequeathed to him).

Heaven couldn't possibly have missed that one. 

He stood, shakily. The man who had asked if he was alright reached out to help him, jerked back when their skin brushed. He thought he might have stammered an apology; he wasn't sure. He just knew, immediately, that he needed to run, and he ran, shoring up his walls as he did so, furling himself farther down into his borrowed body.

He ran, and heard the sound of wings behind him.


	3. Each Morning I Wake Up, You Die a Little

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He'd used to have the trick of this, before the world was so small. He'd arrive in a place with no fixed mission, sometimes, or a mission that was vague to the point of uselessness, and he had learned to help whoever he came across. I am still myself, he thought, doggedly. I am still an angel, in a world that needs angels, in a world that needs and needs and needs.

The lavatory on the train was small and cramped, barely large enough to turn around in. But it had a door that locked, a sink where he could wash his face. He could take off his glasses for a minute of peace and soothe the places where they chafed.

And it had a mirror. 

He wasn't even sure what he was hoping for--whether he wanted this Crowley to talk to him or not, whether it was better to know he was alone or know he was losing his mind. The mirror shone back eyes of liquid amber either way. 

"You're not really there, are you?" he said softly.

"Weellll, now. That depends on your definitions, dunnit? You're wondering if there's any of me left in the body, trying to reach you, or if you're just cracking right up, right?"

He hadn't actually considered the possibility of an echo left in the corporation, at least not consciously. But it was slightly more comforting to think that he wasn't gone, not _completely._ "I suppose you know which it is?"

"Not a clue. We're off my map, too, here, angel." His reflection gestured expansively. "I don't have any more experience with this than you do. Less, really."

He bowed his head til his forehead touched the mirror. "You were supposed to be here. This isn't how it was supposed to go. I don't understand _why--"_

"Oi!" He snapped his head up. The Crowley in the mirror was looking at him warningly. "Careful with the why-word, angel. I didn't go through this to see you Fall."

"I don't know _what_ I'm supposed to do. _How_ I'm supposed to do this without you," he said. His eyes were aching again, burning and unfinished, and he dropped his head into his hands to rub them. "How am I even sure that I haven't Fallen?"

"You'd know. Believe me. It's not the sort of thing you just don't notice."

"Really? Because if She wanted to craft me a hell, She could hardly do better than this."

Silence. He raised his head, and met a perfectly normal reflection. 

"Damn it, Crowley," he breathed.

***

The station art identified the city as Poznan. He was briefly glad that his Polish was better than his German--courtesy of several trips here during the cold war years and a harrowing, memorable stint in 1939--and that times were better these days. The city bustled about him as he began to walk, aimlessly, feeling the texture of the life here. 

He'd used to have the trick of this, before the world was so small. He'd arrive in a place with no fixed mission, sometimes, or a mission that was vague to the point of uselessness, and he had learned to help whoever he came across. I am still myself, he thought, doggedly. I am still an angel, in a world that needs angels, in a world that needs and needs and needs. 

He didn't think he could bestow much Grace, right now, not with the drag on his heart and the fear in his gut. He didn't think he could spread much blessing without calling down the wrath of Heaven. But he could do _something,_ at least, for the people he passed. He reached out with a thought--the barest touch of power--and calmed a building argument, soothed a restive infant, loved a young man who was questioning everything and an old woman who was losing herself in despair.

He remembered the pull of the church, in Germany, and let his feet choose their direction, and hoped that he would be drawn to where he needed to be.

***

He'd lost Crowley's coat.

He'd been trying to fix the scorch, haltingly, subtly, a tiny trickle of power at a time. The scorch had been remarkably resistant to miracling, probably due to being angelically dispensed in the first place. But whatever the reason, he'd been spending time on it, reinforcing and rebuilding it thread by thread when he had a few minutes' peace. Truth to tell, he'd spent more time trying to mend the jacket than he had trying to mend the aching mess on his ribs, although that was healing on its own sluggish timetable.

This morning, he'd been sitting on a wall by the walkway in late-morning sun, jacket draped across his lap while he stroked gently across the burn. His focus was turned down toward it, tiny amounts of power flowing into the fibers to restore it, letting the city ebb and rise around him. 

It worked well, until the nearby _BANG!_ and sudden onslaught of screams and distress knocked his focus sideways. He ran toward it, not noticing when the coat fell from his lap. 

I am still who I am, he told himself. Even when I'm not sure what that means.

Today, it meant running toward the sudden pain flaring in his senses--using all the power he dared to halt the flames of an overturned car, to calm the passengers, to heal the worst, most dire hurts before any of them could become a cause of death. Today it meant being solid and sure, delivering calm to onlookers, blessings to get the emergency services here quickly and safely.

Today it meant knowing he needed to leave, and realizing that he had dropped Crowley's coat. It meant going, and looking, and realizing that the coat was gone, vanished. It meant spending precious time he didn't have looking for it. 

He could see their futures, he thought, as he slipped aboard the next train and glimpsed figures winging through the air--those people today, whose lives he had worked for. This one was a nurse, who would continue to save lives; that one, though still small, would be a teacher. This one would write a book one day about an otherworldly guardian with eyes like a snake's, and would never remember why.

He took a seat numbly, and tried not to resent them for what he had paid.

***

It was Vienna where the first demons found him, stepping out of an alley while he walked past and falling into step beside him. "'Ullo, Crawly," the tall one said, grabbing one arm.

"Beelzebub wants to see you," said the shorter one, taking hold of his other arm.

He scrabbled for character and had to reach far, too far. How could he be losing this already? "Hey, guys. Beelz can always send a message, you know."

"You ain't been answering your calls, Crawly." They were steering him none-too-subtly off the main road, toward a darkened little alcove with trees and bushes. 

Alarm swelled in his chest, tapping power more strongly than he could afford. "Not a good time. Tell Beelz I'll give zir a call?"

"Eugh. You smell _holy_. You find another angel to sponge off? That's just... that's disgusting, that is."

"Sorry, guys, but I can't. Let go right now and I won't say a word. You can say you never found me." He was going to be noticed, he knew he was, and he couldn't tamp down on the power fizzing through him while he was this panicked. It felt good, so _good,_ and he only wanted it to go away. 

"Hur, that's funny," said the short one, tightening his grip.

Oh, well. It had been a nice try. "Dreadfully sorry, then," he said, and spread his arms to slap his hands down on their chests. He was holding too much power, and he let go of all of it straight into them.

They flew off in opposite directions, smoking. He crept closer to one--he wasn't sure if it was enough to discorporate them, or whether they'd be getting up--but caught a glimpse of his reflection in a window.

"Run," it said. 

He ran, pulling himself as closed as he could. Shouts and the clap of wings sounded behind him. And he ran.

***

The Italian sun was warm on his back, even as the nights drew in. He had been here some little while without emergency--long enough to find calm for his mind and occupation for his hands in the grape harvest for the vineyards; long enough to get to know some of his fellow workers in the easy camaraderie of the now, to share their meals and their wine. (He was careful not to take too much food from these people who needed it more than he did. He was careful not to take too much wine, not when he could feel the pull of it, the desire to let it drown his senses.)

Farid skipped the wine but reached past him for a pear, then smiled and tapped him behind the ear. "Ah, Antony. You are starting to grey!"

He froze, completely without meaning to, and it took him a moment to realize that everyone else had stilled, watching him in varying degrees of alarm. Whatever expression had shone through on his face, clearly it was at least somewhat worrisome. He smoothed it out, consciously, pulled on a smile like an ill-fitting coat. "I must be getting old," he said, trying for jovial cheer, voice barely cracking at all.

Aleksis stared at him for a moment longer, then offered him some more wine. He allowed himself to be persuaded, just this once, letting a second glass slide down his throat. Relishing the taste of sweet sunshine and the slight deadening of his senses that the alcohol brought. 

"It happens to all of us," Aleksis said cheerily. "Except my own dear nonna, whose hair is still black as a raven's wing."

"Oh? And what does she use to color it?" came a voice from his other side, and the moment was forgotten in good-natured teasing. He smiled and laughed, and shelved it away, and was thankful for his sunglasses. 

Later, when he had a mirror and a moment to himself, his heart sank. The locks of hair behind his ears were stark-white and starting to curl, with a strip of pinkish-orange creeping out into the banked-ember red of Crowley's hair. Similar streaks of white were just starting at his temples.

"Ooh, distinguished," said the Crowley in the mirror.

"This shouldn't even be possible," he said, leaning heavily on the sink.

"Oi, what's 'possible' when it's at home, angel? It's _happening."_ Mirror Crowley brushed at his temple. "Suits you, though."

"Not you, though. You don't look right with white hair."

"It's not me anymore. You should make it your own."

"It's going to keep going, isn't it?" he said. "I didn't... I didn't want this."

"Angel, even the Great Plan didn't go according to plan. Ours may have been doomed from the start. But it bought the world you. You can be a ray of sunshine out there, for them. You don't need me for it."

"I do, though. I did. I always will." He rested his forehead in his hands. "And none of it... it doesn't make you real."

***

He could feel the grief reaching for him as the train approached... wherever they were nearing. He'd lost track, again, of where he was going, but it didn't matter--something was wrong, ahead. Something had gone horribly wrong. Need and pain and despair pulled at him, and his feet itched to carry him forward, even knowing that the train would bring him closer much faster than he could manage on his own without drawing on power he might need.

It wasn't hard to find, when he piled off the train as the doors opened. He could have gotten there with his eyes closed, even if there hadn't been a pillar of smoke and dust catching the sun like a beacon to light his way. _A pillar of cloud by day,_ he thought, _and a pillar of flame by night._

He could feel it as he approached; gas lines fractured, burning, raging. Fire spreading, or trying to. One building down already, and firefighters stretched and overwhelmed as two more started to catch. 

Fire was not his element, not as it had been Crowley's. But this was no Hellfire, and he wasn't asking it to dance to his tune; he just needed to shut it down. He reached out, pinched out the spark that was about to light a pocket of gas--pulled a firefighter out of the way and into good air as the fumes started to overwhelm them--tamped down the mains closer to the source, before more fuel could make this worse--set up a breeze, to spread and dilute the existing gas--

He was choking on smoke and dust, he realized; someone had hold of his arms and was guiding him out, to sit with survivors and emergency personnel. A cup was pressed into his hand, and he drank automatically, letting the cool water slide down the rawness of his throat. How long had that taken? How long had he spent, lit up like a beacon? 

How many people had died while he worked; that he hadn't been able to save? 

What would the angels do to those who were left, when they followed him here?

He drank the rest of his water and stood. Shook off the kind hands who tried to press him back down, and left.

***

His wings itched. They'd been itching for days, annoyingly, just behind his shoulder blades, making him want to scratch pointlessly at empty air. And he had no place both large enough and private enough that he could manifest them, and so they itched.

It was almost a week before he found himself pulled to another church--open, friendly, but mostly deserted at this time of day--and let himself into an empty classroom where he could finally bring them out.

The relief of it _hurt._ Cramped muscles stretched out for the first time in months; tendons tensed and ready for flight. His feathers shifted the air around them, whispered that this is what they were designed for. He closed his eyes for a moment just feeling them, letting them exist on this plane. 

When he opened his eyes again and turned to look at them, his breath caught in his throat. Crowley's wings--sleek, night-black, void-black as they had been--were peppered with white feathers. Small ones, yes. (For now. He was sure it was only for now; sure that this change too, once started, would continue unless he Fell in truth.)

He folded to the floor, kneeling and bowed. Speckled wings pulled tight around him, cocooning him, pressing warm against him. There was a soft keening sound, baffled oddly by the feathers; it took him a moment to realize it was coming from his own throat. 

In a whisper, he asked to the empty room, "How much more of you do I have to lose?"

***

"You know what happened," said the Crowley in the mirror one day, out of the blue. His hair was mostly white now, and it had been a while since Crowley had spoken to him.

"You died," he said back.

"No, I mean why it didn't work. I think I figured it out."

"Because Agnes Nutter was full of shit?" He winced at the venom in his voice, but could not deny it.

"Think about it. We knew we were changing. Heaven and Hell knew we were changing. And holy water is dangerous to demons, but doesn't really hurt anything else..."

His eyes widened. "But Hellfire... Hellfire destroys everything. _Everything."_ He leaned on the sink, head bowed. "I should have seen it."

"It would never have worked if we weren't already changing. They'd never have believed it."

He snapped his head back up, staring. "But it _didn't_ work!"

The Crowley in the mirror smiled. "It did for you."

"I wish it hadn't."

"Don't say that. There needs to be a you in the world, angel. What did we do this for, if not to make sure there was a you in the world?"

"I did this because... because I didn't want to die, yes. Because I didn't want _you_ to die. Because I couldn't, I couldn't _bear_ to lose you. And look how that turned out."

"It turned out with _you,"_ mirror Crowley said. "You, still alive. Hold on to that."

"...Yeah."


	4. Take a Look in the Mirror and Cry (Lord, What You Do To Me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He approached the altar and knelt. "Lord," he said, and that wasn't quite right, not for this. "Almighty," he tried, and that wasn't it either; it smacked of official channels, submitting himself for review, and this was anything, _anything_ but that.
> 
> He took a breath and tried to steady his heartbeat. "Mother," he said softly, and it was _right._

He plucked the last black feather before it could turn white. He took his jacket (his new one, that had never known this body while Crowley was in it) and he carefully sewed the feather into the lining over his stupid broken humanish heart, and used some of his carefully hoarded miracle to keep it safe and protected.

(When people ask about it, as sometimes they do, he tells them it's a raven feather that he was given, or a crow's; he spins a tale about superstition or old religions or trickster gods, depending on his audience. 

(He does not say, not ever, this is the feather of my dear friend, whose body I now wear. He does not say, he gave his life for me, and I never even told him how much I loved him. He does not say, I plucked it myself, before I could destroy it, so I would have some part of him that wasn't changing. That wasn't turning into me.)

The feather was too large for a raven or a crow. No corvid ever had that deep a black, or the light dusting of red in the vanes. But nobody seemed to notice that, either.

***

It was the blue that caught his attention--just a streak of it, coming out from the vertical pupil in an eye that should have been liquid gold. It was jarring. It was electric.

It was _wrong,_ so wrong, and the sight of it closed an icy fist around him. "No," he gasped, cold clenched around his fragile human heart, compressing his lungs. "No. No no no. Not that." He kept himself upright by sheer force of will and a crushing grip on the metal sink, until he felt it start to give under his fingers. "Not that. Please."

"I told you, once, that the eyes followed me through any corporation, right?" said the Crowley in the mirror. "Yeah, I know I did."

"You can't. You can't, _please,_ you can't. This is the last of you I have." His breath stuttered in his chest, eyes burning while no tears fell. "And I don't....I don't have any way to stop, I can't make it stop, I can't _stop."_

"I don't think you can stop this, angel. It was always going to be you eventually."

"Not... not just this, it's not that I can't stop this. I can't _stop._ There's nowhere to go. Heaven won't try Hellfire again if I go back there, they'll be mad enough to _really_ make an example, and if I try to go to Hell... what do you think my chances are, really? That I could stumble my way to the fire pits before someone noticed and decided to really have some fun with the rogue angel?"

"Don't you dare!"

"What? Unless you tell me how to go straight there before I lose you, there's no chance, is there?" He closed his eyes, briefly, then looked back up and met that gaze straight on. "Holy water won't answer for me and discorporation would just send me straight back to Heaven. There is nowhere for me to go."

"Don't talk like that. Don't. I wanted you to live."

"And I wanted you to be with me!" he shouted. "I wanted to have dinner with you and share a decent bottle of wine. I wanted everyone to leave us alone so I could sit you down on your ridiculous throne, so I could tell--" he bit off, out of habit, and took a shaky breath. "So I could tell you how much I love you. How important you are. So I could hold your infuriating face in my hands and make you look at me while I tell you how _good_ you are."

"I'm not good, angel. I'm not. But... I think I'd have liked that."

"I'd have liked that. I wanted that. But I left it too late and, and you died. And there's no afterlife for the likes of us, and even if there was, I have no way to get there. And I don't know what to do." His hands wound around each other, ran themselves through hair gone completely white. "I can't miracle this. I can't fix it with Grace or love. I would drain Heaven if I thought it would work, so help me. I would drown the world in miracle. I would walk right up and punch Michael in the eye, if I thought for one moment she'd just _end me_ and send me after you."

"Angel...." Apparently his hallucination didn't know what to say to that.

That was fine, he thought, sinking to the floor and trying to breathe. It made two of them.

***

The church was old and small, but cherished. Centuries of love shone in the stonework, the stained glass, the wooden doors aged hard as metal. It was late, and dark. He didn't even need a miracle to get inside; he wasn't the first angel this church had known. It opened immediately to his questioning touch. 

He'd sheltered in quite a few places of worship--churches and chapels and cathedrals, a few synagogues, the occasional mosque. If--when--he moved significantly out of Europe he would probably find himself drawn to temples and shrines, places that hadn't been built to the Almighty, but were still touched by Her.

He approached the altar and knelt. "Lord," he said, and that wasn't quite right, not for this. "Almighty," he tried, and that wasn't it either; it smacked of official channels, submitting himself for review, and this was anything, _anything_ but that. 

He took a breath and tried to steady his heartbeat, sort through the roil in his... soul, he supposed. Maybe he had one of those, these days. He started again.

"Mother," he said softly, and it was _right,_ and it tore open his heart. "Mother... You don't talk to us anymore, and I've gotten used to that. Sometimes I even understand it. But I... I still believe that You listen. I have to... I have to believe, in the middle of everything, that You still listen."

The darkness of the church surrounded him. He was too full of words, words he hadn't dared voice until they stretched him to bursting and had to be spilled out; the velvet silence pulled at him, made him ache to fill it.

"Why?" he said. "Crowley says I shouldn't ask why, that it's too dangerous. That I might Fall, if I ask too loudly. But I have to, I _need_ to ask, even if You never answer. Because I don't understand and I don't know what to do and I don't know how to go on and I don't know why."

He shifted, bowed his head, eyes closed. "Why would You make them the gloriously messy and beautiful creatures they are, and test them to destruction? How was that even a test of them at all? Everything involved was caused by one of us! Why would You test _us_ to destruction, when we thought we were doing what You had planned?

"What was this all for?" He went on. "What is the point of killing children to teach them a lesson? Why did You drown the world? Why could it not be enough to show them a better way? Why is it never enough?"

The cracks of him were jagged, now, grinding against each other. He almost thought he could see them, levering him apart, leaving him kneeling in a pool of his own black despair. "I want to trust You, to love You, but I don't think I know You anymore. I can't see the You I thought I knew, and I can't-- I can't--" he broke off, feeling bitter laughter bubbling up behind his teeth. "I was going to say I can't love someone who isn't there, but that's not true, is it? Because I still love him, and he's gone, he isn't there, and it's not right and it's not f-fair and it's not just and there's a hole in the world where he should be. There's--There's a hole--" he sobbed. "There's a hole in _me_ where he should be, and I can't stop falling through it." 

He leaned forward in this lanky body, arms outstretched. Folding to the floor in older forms of supplication, from before the world decided that sitting upright in pews was the way to make an appeal to God. "I tell myself I'm still who I am, but I don't even know who that is anymore! I look in the mirror and I can still see some of him, but it's so little, so little, there's nothing left of him and I, I don't see how I can still be me when he's gone.

"Why did You let him Fall? He was good and kind and I had the same questions he did. How have I not Fallen? What is the _point_ of being unFallen, if I can't help them? If anything I try to do risks bringing down the wrath of Heaven on them? Why would You leave me here forsaken?"

He pulled himself up to his knees, only to fall back, lying on the floor, staring dry-eyed at the intricate patterns on the ceiling. He was, he realized, asking the wrong questions. Again. "Why haven't You let me Fall, yet? Why won't..." he broke off, not looking at the water in the font, he wasn't looking at it, he was _not._

His voice broke, and all he had left was a whisper. "Why can't You just let me Fall?"

***

The sun shone through stained glass, painting the interior of the church in colored light. 

He blinked sticky eyes, slowly, trying to remember sunrise and coming up blank. There had been... shouting, he remembered, and pleading. Staring at the ceiling, hoping for a reply that never came. (Of course it didn't come, of _course_ it didn't, what had he been thinking? She hadn't answered in thousands of years, why would he ever have thought that She might answer him now?)

He stared at the ceiling for a few more minutes. He must, he reasoned, have fallen asleep at some point. He didn't remember doing so, which he quite suspected would have been worrying on another day.

Somehow, he couldn't work up the appropriate concern just now. 

He felt down into his body, where he lay against the consecrated floor. Physically speaking, a nap in a holy place seemed to have been just what he needed. It felt... comfortable, if anything; it felt warming and friendly. The font did not feel dangerous, and he knew that, if he could bring himself to look, his wings would still be white. 

Whatever the rules had been at the Beginning, he thought sourly, clearly asking difficult questions and doubting the Almighty's plan was no longer sufficient provocation. "It's, it's _unfair,"_ he whispered. Deeply unfair, that Crowley should have been judged irredeemable, unforgiveable; that he should have had his Grace torn out, that he should have been made monster and prey for monsters, all for crimes which apparently now did not even rate a personal rebuke. He had raged and sobbed and questioned, questioned, questioned, and could still feel the wellspring of Grace in him, carefully dammed but always ready to overflow its banks if he wasn't careful. 

He wanted to laugh, bitterly; he wanted to open himself up and pour Grace into the world until he was hollowed out, empty and deflated, until there was nothing left of him. 

He did not, particularly, want to find out how much torment and punishment he could endure at the hands of his former brethren. And so he kept moving, and held the floodgates closed, and did not weep.

A _thump_ behind him and a muffled voice were all the warning he got before a figure in vestments was coming toward him, radiating concern. He fumbled his glasses back on.

"Ah!" An owlish little bespectacled man in rich vestments was coming toward him, blinking. "[You must have gotten here early!]"

Greek, that was. He pushed himself up, ignoring the creaks of a body that hadn't moved in too long. He could do Greek, although his own was likely outdated. Languages changed so quickly, and it had been decades since he had spent any time in Greece. "[Apologies, Father. The door... wasn't locked, and I felt the need to pray.]"

"[Not a bit, my son. All are welcome in His House. And you don't appear to be stealing the silver.]" The priest bowed his head towards the altar, then faced him again.

"[I promise I haven't, no.]" He sighed. "[I just had to, to talk to God. Or try.]"

"[And did you find your answers?]"

"[No. I don't think I expected to. It's been... so, so long,]" he said, feeling the crack of his voice and the lump in his throat. He tried again. "[So long, since I got an answer. But I had to ask the questions. I had to try.]"

The priest's expression softened. "[God always gives us an answer, my child. It might not be the one we want, or the one we expect, but there's always an answer.]"

"[So tell me, then, if you know. What is the difference between an answer I can't hear, or can't understand, and silence? What is the difference between silence and absence?]"

"[You have the hard questions, yes. Come, sit down. There's some time yet before services.]" The old man settled stiffly onto a bench and patted the space next to him. "[I do not pretend to have all the answers. But I do believe that answers exist, if we have faith. And I believe,]" the priest went on, with a sideways look at him "[that we must not fall into the sin of despair.]"

He wanted to laugh. No, that wasn't right; he wanted to scream, and never stop screaming. But this kind old man didn't deserve that, either. He reached out with a touch of power, as he sat down, to take care of the stiffness in old bones and the beginnings of a cough settling into fragile lungs. "[I don't think despair is a sin, Father. Any more than it's a sin to be unable to see if the lights are off. Or,]" he said, "[if one is blinded.]"

"[We must not allow ourselves to give up hope,]" the priest insisted. "[All our hope should be in Him.]"

"[Hope can be broken, though. Smashed and stolen or just drained away. I never understood those who would make a mortal sin of being unable to hold on to it.]"

A kind, weathered hand laid itself over his. "[We have faith, my son. And we always have our hope of Heaven.]"

He did laugh at that, bitterly. Crowley would have found it hilarious, he thought. "[Thank you for your time, Father. But I'm afraid... my faith is broken, you see. And I'm all out of hope.]" He stood, gently patted the old man's hand, and made his way out. 

***

"It's not his fault, my dear," he said later, as the Crowley in the mirror laughed. "He was trying. I suspect seminary never had a class for 'how to help an angel having a crisis of faith.'" He sighed. "I just couldn't stay there and be told that Heaven was my answer." The blue in his eyes had spread, covering most of one iris and more than half of the other; his pupils were starting to round out.

Crowley was fading. Even through the laughter, he could see his regular reflection as well, a dizzyingly doubled image. He wanted to fight it, rage against it.

He didn't want to miss a moment of it, or budge from this spot, in case this was the last time.

(Somewhere in the back of him, he was already making plans to find staggering amounts of alcohol when this all fell down.)

"Still can't believe he told you to hope for Heaven," Crowley said, sniggering. "Spoken like someone who's never been there. _Definitely_ someone who's never met Gabriel."

"Humanity has a different view, dear." He sighed again. "They've never sat through one of his performance reviews."

"On the bright side, you don't have to anymore, either."

"Never again." He hadn't meant to be so angry or so honest--not yet, not while he still had this--but he couldn't help himself. "No matter what. They can't make me. Not ever, ever again. I could even forgive them trying to kill me. But they... They took--" 

He stopped, tried to breathe. "If I were a better angel, I would be able to forgive them."

"If they were better angels, you wouldn't have to," said the Crowley in the mirror with a shrug.

"It should be you. It should be you, here. You did better. You were wonderful, and I never told you, you were good and kind and lovely and I never _told_ you."

"Oi, shut it. What did I say about the four letter words?"

"You can't possibly be afraid of Hell now, dear. There's nothing they can do to you anymore."

"They can do it to you, angel. Just because I'm already gone, don't give yourself up." Mirror Crowley was fading, toward the end, fuzzing out, replaced by regular, ordinary reflection; in it, his right eye was almost completely blue.

"Don't go," he choked, and there had to be something wrong with this corporation, because he knew he didn't used to have to breathe this much, or have this much trouble doing so. "It should be, should be you! You were better, you were brilliant, and I'm just... I'm just a soft old angel who doesn't know when to let go."

His reflection was static for a moment, long enough to make him start to think it was done, before Crowley's expressions fuzzed back in. "...really think any of the other angels would have stepped up to forgive a demon? For anything?"

Relief hit him like a blow, and he almost smiled. "No other demons would have forgiven me, either. Nor the angels. And you always did. No matter how wretched I was to you, you always forgave me." His eyes itched, and he rubbed at them. "And then I got you killed."

"Oi, I said _stoppit_ We both chose. We accepted the risks, angel. A chance was better than nothing." Crowley looked at him sternly, then his expression shifted to something he couldn't quite read. "Angel?"

Oh, that tone sent ice into his heart. "...What is it?"

"I can... I can see your eyes changing. The blue looks good on you. It always did."

He leaned forward, peering into the mirror. Crowley was right. The blue was overtaking the yellow faster now. Visibly fast. His right eye was entirely changed; his left only a little less. "No. Not yet, please. Please, _please_ don't go!"

"I don't think I'm going to be able to stay, angel." Mirror Crowley was fuzzing again, fading. "Go be in the wo... ...eeds you out there, the other angels won't he...."

"You can't!" His eyes burned, and his cheeks were wet, it was hard to see--

"...ove you," Crowley said, with the crooked smile the demon had only used for him. "Always di...."

He waited, wiping tears away impatiently, watching as the last trace of gold was overwritten by ocean-blue.

His reflection was... his. Only him. 

He sank down onto the floor and wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work is somewhat beta'd. much of my regular cadre quite reasonably peaced out on the 'PinkPenguin writes horrible sads and makes herself cry' update plan. Thanks are due to LastSaskatchewanPirate for beta and letting me talk through ideas even when it became clear that I am a fucking monster. Any mistakes or issues are mine wholly and not theirs.
> 
> So... I swear I did not set out to break him or make all the sad. I was thinking of the common fan idea that certain traits, for instance Crowley's eyes, were inherent and would follow him from corporation to corporation. And I thought how weird it would be if one of them stayed in the other's body long enough to see that happen, except the only way I could see that happening would be if... if they... oh. Oh, no. No no no. No. 
> 
> Yes, apparently. Because my brain just kept handing me things that would make it worse and then I did them because I am a fucking monster. 
> 
> So. Um. I promise the next story will be soon, and happy, and entirely not this.
> 
> I am so, so sorry.


End file.
